Tiger Tiger
by Maestus
Summary: There never was a tiger, only a sleazebag in the middle of the night with a thing for blondes. But Jim didn't mind Sebastian's lies; he liked the stories his sniper spun. One-shot


**Another take on Sebastian Moran's past, otherwise known as me taking a break from the angst-fest of my other Sherlock WIP. A small oneshot I wrote in between writing chapters of Priorities. **

**Warnings for slash, mentions of torture and violence.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, I wouldn't be guessing at Moran's personality, I'd be turning it into reality (:**

**Enjoy,**

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Jim Moriarty was a man built up of lies. They flowed around him, granted him form that no mortal body could ever hope to achieve, crafted a reputation from the merest scrapes of nothing, and he was oh so proud of his lies. Who else had created a persona so flawless, so unbreakable as his? A thousand detectives couldn't find a hole in his masterpiece nor a single scrap of evidence to show that Richard Brook was nothing more than fake identity and they never would either. Jim Moriarty was Richard Brook and Richard Brook was Jim Moriarty. So you see, there was no one more adept at lying than Jim.

But he could certainly appreciate another genius at work when that genius came in the form of his second in command. Sebastian Moran, a man who, to the rest of the world, was an enigma wrapped in a mystery covered by an invisibility cloak but to Jim was simply a curiosity, a puzzle to be unraveled and studied. There were so many layers surrounding this solitary sniper, so many stories that at times even Jim was unsure about what was fact and what was fiction.

He liked that. He liked Seb to make up tales at night whilst Jim twined teasing fingers through the thick blond hair framing his face and traced the multitude of scars decorating the sniper's body, occasionally adding his own if he was in the mood. He had a few favourites, his first being the small smiley face on Sebastian's shoulder. That one had taken a while to perfect but it had been worth the several long hours of meticulous carving with the scalpel to see his own special mark gleaming on the skin of another, marking the man as belonging to Jim; his property, no one else's. It was a warning.

It also just happened to be situated at the top of what were probably Jim's least favourite scars, least favourite because they were only ones that he himself hadn't put there. They were long and raised, three uneven lines running across the middle of Sebastian's back, oddly symmetrical amongst the random doodles that passed for his other scars. Seb liked to tell others that they were from a tiger he had came across whilst travelling in India, expanding into further detail when prompted, details which varied at each re-telling. It really was quite amusing.

You see, there never had been a tiger. Nor had there been any trip to India; it was all just a fantasy constructed to lead people away from the truth, a truth which Sebastian found to be embarrassing to say the least. Nope, no tiger, just some sleazebag of a client who happened to owe Jim a lot of money and needed reminding just who was in charge. It also happened to be the first time he employed Sebastian Moran for anything other than basic point and shoot jobs; the man, after all, had so far proven himself to be nothing particularly special.

And he certainly had been proven wrong.

Two and a half hours after he had first sent out the blond sniper, Jim came back to his apartment to find a pile of credit cards, what must have been at least a thousand pounds in notes and a couple of safety deposit box keys lying on the coffee table. Moran himself was slumped on the couch, steadily sewing up a gaping wound across his forearm, teeth gritted against the pain.

"Fucker took me by surprise," he hissed out, biting the thread in two and pulling it taut. "You never mentioned he was a bloody sex-obsessed pervert." This was said in a much more accusing tone, the sniper looking up from his task to glare at Jim in a brave act of defiance, something the consulting criminal was unused to. It wasn't customary for minions to talk back but Jim liked the change; it added a little bit of…_zest _to the whole affair. Even so…

"You didn't need to know; it was a simple threaten and collect. Care to explain where it went wrong?" Noting with disapproval the spots of blood coating the carpet, – thick shagpile; removing the stains would be a _nightmare – _Jim perched himself gingerly on the edge of the sofa and turned his attention back to the money, silently counting it up in his head. Well, there was definitely a _lot _more there than he had asked for…

"Chloroform happened," Moran grunted out, now poking at a fresh bruise across his forearm and looking disgruntled. "Managed to get me down and tied to the bloody bed post before I could react. Apparently he has a thing for blondes; I take it you knew about this?"

"Maybe…"

"Bastard."

Jim laughed, a proper chuckle that was as rare as gold-dust in these parts, deciding that he was going to keep this man. This apparent disregard for respect was _refreshing._

"He also had a thing for knives; did you know about _that?_" Moran didn't even bother waiting for Jim to answer, instead ploughing on with his little tirade or whatever it was he was in the middle of. "Decided he wanted to play around with his catch a bit, mark it as his own; tried to turn my back into a noughts and crosses board if you're interested."

Ah, so that must be where all the blood had come from; the wound on Moran's forearm hadn't looked that bad.

"How far into the game did he get before you took him out?" Jim asked with a smirk, thinking that Moran was not a man who would allow himself to be tied up, at least not for too long, which turned out to be correct.

"He didn't even finish the board." At this statement, Moran gave a sudden grimace and reached back over his shoulder to glide rough fingers across the skin, withdrawing them when they touched blood. "Hurts like a bitch though."

"May I see?"

With a nod, hands slippery with crimson danced across the buttons of the sniper's rather worse for wear shirt, the entire garment being slid off with a shrug of the shoulders. The blond twisted in his seat, displaying a smooth back marred only by three deliberate lacerations running parallel across the middle of his back, deep yet neat, bringing an appreciative smile to Jim's face as he admired the artwork of another. Then he frowned.

You see, in that particular moment he had decided that Sebastian Moran was going to be _his _which meant no one else was allowed to mark him but _Jim_ and anyone who did otherwise would now suffer. So _that_ meant that is darling client was going to be in for yet another visit...

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Who do think dumbo? Our dear friend Mr. Larisster; I think I need to have a talk with him."

The change in atmosphere was instantaneous, Moran looking away almost sheepishly and running a bloodied hand through his unruly blonde hair. "Uh, about that… You may have some difficulty with that, unless you know a method of contacting the dead of course."

"He's _dead?"_

"He pissed me off."

Well, that was very...straight to the point, yet another thing to add to the list of likable features of Sebastian Moran. "Where's the body?"

"In several pieces, all burnt. Don't worry, I smashed his teeth. That's all his money there by the way; a couple of thousand in notes, about 5 credit cards and several keys for various safety deposit boxes. There's a list of various pins and passwords for a few more as well; he had quite the collection. From what he told me, he has a fair bit of cash squirreled away."

And thorough too, nice. Suddenly the consulting criminal no longer cared that he had just lost yet another of his regular clients (not that Larisster inspired any caring feelings in Jim; he was a horrible slimy little fellow who was quite possibly a rapist and there was nothing more Jim hated than a rapist. They got _everything _wrong), instead finding himself speed-dialing a familiar number and holding the phone to his ear, grinning all the while. Moran watched him curiously, currently in the midst of trying to stop the bleeding.

The phone answered first ring. "_Boss?"_

"Hello Mr. Kingston; you're fired."

He'd never liked his so called personal sniper and so it was with satisfaction that he ended the call and smirked at Moran.

"So, Sebastian, _Sebby, _how would you like a full time job?"

He said it like it was a question but of course it wasn't; there never was a choice when it came to joining Jim Moriarty so it was quite fortunate that Moran said yes. He would have so hated to have to do something drastic.

That must have been several years ago now and in the course of that time, 'Moran' had become full time 'Sebby', 'Sebastian' when Jim is annoyed with him, and had somehow ended up in a relationship with the man who was supposed to be his boss and nothing more. What could Jim say though? Even now, he still viewed the sniper as something to be desired, still loved the defiant moody air he held about himself and that unquestionable sense of pride the blond carried, pride which almost rivaled his own. Sebastian was all his and no one could take that away from him.

Well, they could always try but they would ultimately suffer.

And yes, he absolutely detested those three thick lines bisecting Sebastian's back though the elaborate stories spun to explain their presence certainly made up for it. You see, if there was one thing Jim liked, it was tigers. He liked the lies they brought.

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**Thoughts and con-crit are much appreciated (:**


End file.
